Destinations / JOURNEYcultivated ground. The Great Tower of Chaini loomed inthe foreground, recalling a time past when warring tribesinhabited these valleys. Originally a defensive castle, thetower was built nearly 400 years ago and stands an aston-ishing 147 feet high (roughly 13 stories). It’s the tallestfree-standing structure in the entire Western Himalayasthat’s built in the traditional style.

Just before nightfall, the procession reached theSakiran Dhar Ridge and made a final push for the crest.Shringi Rishi’s mountain temple finally came into view.

This modest wooden structure seemed to humble itself
before the grand Himalayan ranges. Without warning, a
bare-chested gur went into a violent trance, dashed around
the peak to ward off evil spirits and flogged himself with
metal chains. The villagers looked on calmly as if to say
“all in a day’s work” for a gur, then retired to temporary
encampments where they spent the chilly night.

THE PEAK WAS HUMMING WITH ACTIVITY WHEN WE
WOKE UP THE NEX T MORNING TO CLEAR SKIES. One after
another, villagers offered small vessels of milk and clarified
butter at Shringi Rishi’s temple. These symbols of regeneration are offered to the god because he follows the more
orthodox Hindu precept of nonviolence toward animals.

But ritual animal sacrifice (bali ), a common form of wor-ship in the Seraj, was being performed at a stone shrineonly several yards away. The shrine is dedicated to a yogini,a wild nature goddess with dangerous cosmic energy and ahealthy appetite for blood. Her power is so threatening thateven the supremely powerful Shringi Rishi pays homage toher and asks for her protection. Villagers rarely mentionthe yogini, for fear of inciting her wrath, and they nor-mally steer clear of her mountaintopshrine. But once a year, when theyfollow Shringi Rishi to Sakiran Peak,they offer a goat for sacrifice to winthe yogini’s goodwill.

Just clear of the crimson-coloredground, a crowd gathered aroundShringi Rishi’s gur. The gur wasseated cross-legged and his longtresses, which he’s forbidden tocut and normally hides from view,flowed down his chest as a sign thatthe devata was present. The gur wasusing his god-given powers to divinethe future. Just as die are cast andtea leaves are read in other cultures,black mustard seeds are counted inthe Seraj. Gurs hand out the seedsin seemingly random pinches and one’s future is fore-told by the number of seeds one receives. Goaded on bythe crowd, I suspended my disbelief in predestinationand accepted some seeds from Shringi Rishi’s gur. Mynumber was disappointing, and I was motioned to take asecond try (inauspicious again), and a third (auspiciousat last). I suspected that my repeated tries were break-ing with tradition but I figured that in India, where “theguest is God,” dooming me to an ill-fated future wouldhave been the greater sin.

The crowd suddenly shifted to Shringi Rishi’s temple.

All eyes were on its gabled roof where two goats, facing
opposite directions, were straddled. A hush fell over the
crowd as the goats were swiftly beheaded. Their blood
was left to purify the temple until Shringi Rishi returned
again. Even the vegetarian Shringi Rishi hasn’t forsworn
this age-old practice, one of many things in the Seraj that
can’t be explained.

The peak emptied out quickly after this climactic event.In a sprawling pasture below the peak, slaughtered goatswere being divvied up and nothing edible was left to waste.I reached into my pocket for the lucky mustard seeds, letthem slip through my fingers and drop to the sacred ground,and started the long walk down. M